While the grand title might suggest a turn to things ancient and eternal—and, on some registers, of course, it does—Saint Genet's Paradisiacal Rites, like Jean Genet himself, demands that we attend to the present and the particular, to dirt and blood and saliva and breath, to small, shared intimacies and cruelties and the large, sweeping movements in which they are played out and repeated, just beyond our control.

Walking alone, standing, overwhelming sensation of death as we await for everything to startgive me a handwe are all lostDon't you fucking look at me that way, so sidewaysSlow-motion spinning porcupinesI can feel you piercing my skinwe are all deadWalk slowly, tell me secretsThe unbearable feelings that you are all robots>> can you please begin the entrance of Sir. Carl Lawrencemoments are announced, beginnings fucking sit down you people - is that what you are thinking?…it hasn't even started yet

This show was dark from the beginning, the cast members were spit upon and sent out into a field of dead plants. Like a disclaimer, these people began the show as damaged, soiled or disgraced. The field actually looked like more fun than the front where that dick was spitting on everyone. It was a pretty gorgeous show everyone was really attractive. I had only heard of St Genet but I was expecting nudity or sexual situations. This was about humiliation and degradation which certainly made the subject more interesting.